Let's Make Pottery
by Dr. Agent
Summary: It's a matter of existence, this space between me and you.


_And I can see the lot of life in you.__  
Yes, I can see a lot of life in you.  
_

_When the world looks back,  
when the face looks after that,  
I can see a lot of life in you._  
-Sufjan Stevens, "The Dress Looks Nice On You"

-

In a way, I'm stalking you. I guess, in this context, it should be referred to as "haunting," but that's just semantics.

It's not my fault I suddenly appeared in your apartment. The last thing I remember I'm not sure I even remember correctly. Someone yelling? Some overhead light? Red lines? Marching though a forest looking for U.F.O.s in the last thing I recall doing alive. At least I think I'm dead now. I elect not to think about it anymore and just get through this.

I focus my attention on the scene unfolding with you.

For a woman awake at two o'clock in the morning, this is odd behavior. But I should know not to apply those standards to you. Soft music plays, something I've never heard before. Soft guitar strums and soft vocals are hanging in the room. You pull something out of your closet, I hear but do not see a pair of heels' hollow thud against the floor. A dress. Hair unruly with curls, rubbing the shoulders you slide the dress on, and it's gorgeous. You are gorgeous. Bursting at the seams my fingers reach out, my hand flowing through you I explode. "It'll be the last time I wear this dress," I hear you say. You put your hands on your abdomen and sigh.

All at once my cells fly into alarm, lamenting the piece of them they realize lives and is lost.

At work there is a poised, collected woman, albeit a bit colder and aloof, in the spot where I used to sit. You shuffle paper and answer the phone, look at the letters my reputation beckons (a Big Foot sighting and a sea creature in the Hamptons, throw the latter in the trash). I stare at my nameplate as you work, and I say aloud my apology for never making a place for my partner.

"It's alright," you say. I jump up, utterly startled, but from behind I hear Doggett speak, telling you he didn't see you there. His voice grates my nerves. Maybe I just resent that you're not talking to me.

I've been running with you in the mornings, and I think you push yourself too hard. Your nails dig into your thighs while catching your breath on street corners. I can see you trying to shake away thoughts, reciting the periodic table upon resuming. When the apartment comes into view you ease up and walk up the steps, slowly and methodical, and let yourself inside. I wait for you to get out of the shower, then watch you dust. I don't mind when you clean up the place.

I'm here. Right there beside you. Notice. Please notice. Believe, just this once.

For a woman who doesn't put stock in ghosts, you sure check over your shoulder a lot. It's one of the things I have noticed. Every time I get close I can see you shiver, blink slowly, and look straight through me.

You haunt the haunter.

Back in Georgetown, I see you spill tea on your hand. You slam your palm on the counter, causing me to jump. I don't like watching this. Cursing under your breath, you wash up. To find you suddenly crying, slipping down to the floor and covering your face, shakes me. The water runs unabated, and I try to turn it off. I already knew I couldn't.

So I just sit adjacent on the floor, staring at a leg of the kitchen table. "He's never coming back," I hear you say, garbled by your condition. I don't have the strength, nor ability, to tell you otherwise. But moreover, I'm alarmed at the possibilities, or rather, the truth to your admission.

Am I already gone?

There are places I simply cannot go, one of which is the great beyond. You're dashing through trees, a miracle in heels, but knowing what you hope to and what you will find, I wish you had got caught up in thicker branches or held in stronger arms.

Because all there is for you in this field, Scully, is a rotting version of me.

No great light awaited me in the echoing beats of your horror. I didn't plummet into my flesh or float into fluffy clouds. I stood there, disembodied and unseen, as you crumbled very much alive.

I saw you come to believe in everything but the current state of me, but I don't blame you. Even I'd admit that a giant man-bat is more probable than Mulder the friendly ghost. I just wish I could provide comfort.

Your belly is growing. You get sick, and you can't quite catch all your hair. I have mixed feelings about this. That's a part of me, too. There's a acerbic taste of jealousy in the back of my mind, but I can't look away. I'd be here in any form if it meant I got to be here.

I feel all spread out, in the middle, in the ground, in you. I just want you to put me all back together.

I catch my heartbeat suddenly, and it reminds me of an earthquake. THUMP THUMP. I clutch my shirt and ask you if you hear it, out of habit. Again, thump thump. I sense the world thinning, and with that a flash of darkness. Of fluffy lace. Of a coffin. Of a stiff suit constricting breath in my lungs.

For Fuck's sake Scully! You buried me alive.

I afford myself some questions: Am I happy or angry? Should I hold this against her? I guess it depends on whether she figures

Then everything goes.

-

I hope you put me back together, Scully.

-

A/N: I can't remember what inspired me to write this. I think the opening line just popped into my head. This is rough and unedited, but I just had to purge it.


End file.
